


Get Lost

by winterlive



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-09
Updated: 2011-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-15 13:36:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterlive/pseuds/winterlive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after inception, Arthur hurls his phone into the Mojave Desert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Lost

**Author's Note:**

> for traveller. with special thanks to yeats for her keen eye and new yorker's talent for argument, and gyzym for her expertise, indulgence and enthusiasm.

The morning after inception, Arthur hurls his phone into the Mojave Desert. It's a gesture - all his data, programs and contacts are preserved on the laptop and the SIM card in his briefcase - but it sure fucking feels good. The black shape turns into a dot in the blinding blue sky; Arthur squints to watch it arc until he's sure it's had time to hit ground.

It's dry and still, about noon. Arthur breathes deep and feels dust scrape out the inside of his head.

His convertible is waiting. It's from a rental car place at LAX; he would have preferred a jeep, but there weren't any and this was the only thing that didn't have a roof. It's dulled with sand now, having carried Arthur this far, but under that is the slick cherry red that people write songs about, here in America.

It's been a long, long time since Arthur last came home. He pulls a blanket and the spare tire over his briefcase, slams the trunk and finally lets that deep breath out.

He's been holding it for years, feels like.

Arthur slides into the driver's seat and feels hot leather under his back. For a second it seems like his alias sits in the seat with him, superimposed - Benjamin Julian Patterson, DOB 01/24/1974, SSN 664524444, whose Visa bill says he's in this car on the way to his brother's place in Idaho. Of course, that won't happen. Ben's car will be stolen along the way and he'll catch a Greyhound. This car will be found abandoned on a decent street in whichever city Arthur happens to land, but it won't be in fucking Idaho.

His aviators are hooked onto the rearview, turning the sky behind them violet. He takes a picture of that in his head - the clear sky, the hawk in the distance, the particular shape of the frames - before taking them, sliding them onto his face.

A twist of the key and a foot to the pedal; the convertible sinks its teeth into the ground. The wind wrecks any order that might be left to his hair. The tires spit out gravel that's probably dinging the shit out of the paint, but whatever.

Whatever.

Arthur leans his head back and shouts as long and loud as he can, careening into the vast, empty landscape.

~

Vegas is the first stop. He prowls the car straight up the strip, reaching out to touch the Mirage and the Bellagio as he passes them by. Old friends, those places. This was the first big city he came to, when he took up with a bad element. When he became that bad element.

He gets a room at the Encore because it's the last luxury place along the road, and because it's the newest. He wants the kind of thing he had when he was in Vegas last, a king bed with a corner view, and he puts it on a credit card that makes the concierge call him _sir_. He leans against the counter, gives her a thousand watt smile and asks if she could kindly provide him with the address of the nearest army supply shop. She takes one look at his suit and it's clear she'll give him anything he asks.

If only Arthur planned to ask.

At the supply, he picks out some t-shirts and BDUs in desert camo and basic black, making sure that at least one pair of the pants can zip between full-length and shorts. The kid behind the counter is half asleep and chewing gum; Arthur slants a look toward the older fellow training him and finds an equally sharp gaze glancing off his own. As the kid rings through the clothes, he hums a few bars of something and sort of bounces up and down on his heels. Both older men are startled into a chuckle.

"Thanks," Arthur says when he takes the bag. He ducks his head toward the fellow at the register. "Sir."

The man's teeth grit. "Little shit."

Arthur can't help but laugh again as he heads back to the car.

It doesn't take long to find the right gym, though it makes him regret pitching his phone. The first place he tries is full of women and tastefully painted drywall, the second place is full of the 18th Street gang. The third place is pay dirt, emphasis on the dirt: exposed beams, ring in the middle, and forty years of sweat and chalk stinking up everything.

Arthur changes into his new clothes and warms up with a jump rope. He spends fifteen with the speed bag and twenty with the punch before a guy comes up to him; mid-fifties, black, sharp-eyed, and built all the way to the ground. He puts a meaty shoulder against the Everlast mid-swing and doesn't even budge when it thuds to a stop. "You're new," he says, and doesn't sound all that happy about it.

Arthur tells the man his name and stands up straighter when he does it. "This your place, sir?"

"It is, and it's just John these days, son. Fitzwallace." He sticks out his hand and Arthur takes it firmly. A good handshake tells people what kind of man you are, so his dad always said. John's hand is rock solid. "You fight?" he asks, and Arthur hears the silent remainder of the question.

"Been known to. As a matter of fact, I was hoping to get in on something this weekend, but I haven’t been in Vegas for a while. Thought someone might point me in the right direction."

Fitzwallace gives him a thorough assessment in about five seconds. "You know you're not what they look for."

"That's the way to make money."

Fitzwallace narrows his eyes. "And just what do you need that kind of money for?"

Arthur puts up his hands, palms out, and keeps his voice low. "Nothing special, sir. No bad habits, except breathing. Just a clean, friendly match, and I'll be out of your hair by Monday."

Scowling, Fitzwallace turns toward the ring. "Mitch! Come kick this kid around so I can throw him out on his ass."

A rumble of laughter rolls through the gym. Arthur doesn't smile when he climbs into the ring, but it's a near thing. He promises himself that he won't hurt Mitch too bad; it's only a test, and Fitzwallace seems like a good guy.

Monday dawns bright on Arthur's convertible as it roars down the interstate. He has five thousand dollars in unmarked bills, a healing cut on his bottom lip and a killer hangover courtesy of his new friends, John and Mitch - who each have more than five thousand, thank you. Arthur doesn't need the money. The guy he fought in the match is alive and well and probably drinking with his own friends in his own bar, and it turns out that's all Arthur really needed to do in Vegas.

He turns up the radio and watches the neon slur past on the way out of town.

~

"Well," the waitress decides, standing hipshot against the diner's counter with her coffee pot resting against the Formica. "If you're only stayin' for a day, honey, it's gotta be the Garden of the Gods."

Arthur tries to find a clear section of the newspaper. "Okay. How do I get there?"

"Just take the Cimmaron exit off the Interstate and head west. Can't miss it." She smiles at him as he writes down her instructions; it's the fond look of someone who's been at this job long enough to see the patrons as her kids.

"Thanks," Arthur tells her, and by the time he looks up again she's filling someone else's cup. He tips her forty percent and high-tails it.

Going to a Colorado Springs daylight-hours attraction isn't exactly how Arthur imagined this trip, but it'll be four hours until he can hit his destination, and so. He already lost a full day between here and Vegas because he found the Grand Canyon; lying on the hood of his car and smoking his way through a full pack, dozing as the sun warmed his bruises and the soles of his shoes. Going to see another giant rock formation seems on theme.

The Garden of the Gods reminds Arthur of nothing so much as cathedrals. The play of gold light through red stone must be deliberate, crafted to awe the little mortals. He catches himself memorizing certain details and shakes them out of his head; he's not supposed to be working. He tries to walk like everyone else, to let his mouth hang open as he looks up at the vast hollows overhead. The soles of his shoes are warming his feet, radiating the heat of the day from the pavement. Arthur puts his hands on a gaunt spire clawing into the cobalt sky, imagines himself part of the rock as years flicker by in stop-motion.

When he opens his eyes the sun is setting, and he's due across town.

He cusses out some poor old bat in a Mercury Comet on the way because he doesn't have his fucking phone, he doesn't know where he's going. He has the good grace to feel bad, though. Thanks to a guy at a gas station, Arthur makes it to Fontanero, where he just drives up and down until something looks familiar.

His sister's house is packed into its tiny lot, eating up all the space from one side to the other. The garage in the back is equally small, because she wanted as much lawn as possible for the rug rats and the dog. Her husband Nate isn't much of a handyman, so it works for them. Inside the house is beautiful: exposed brick and beams overhead, simple and bright decor, decorated to encourage the people that live there to use it. It's nothing like where they grew up.

Arthur parks down the street, spreads his map out on the dashboard and tries to look like anyone else.

It doesn't take long for Abbie to appear, still in her running clothes. The kids are even bigger than Arthur imagined, accounting for their ages; Alex is in sixth grade (a slouch and a backpack, a thundercloud over his head) and Sam is in third (skipping at his mom's side, a talent Arthur was once assured boys did not have and could not acquire). She's listening to Sam with a huge smile, swinging his hand back and forth as they walk. They're on the way home from the elementary school Abbie picked out for them, after an exhaustive research effort that Arthur did not feel the need to double check. His sister is more than capable.

When Arthur's family passes by he's checking the glove box, so Abbie won't see his face. He'd go up to the house when she's not home, but Nate's Special Forces out of Fort Carson. It's been years, but the man's got a trained eye and a wife with a scrapbook. Arthur can't take the risk.

She thinks he's dead. It was the only thing he could think of that would stop her from looking.

He sits out there until night falls, blue and cool. The house's windows glow and Arthur can see them all moving around behind Abbie's cherished Roman drapes. He doesn't want to know what they're doing; it's enough that they move, that their doors are closed and the lights are on. He leaves as they're sitting down to dinner.

As he drives, looking for a hotel, he becomes aware of an unsettled sensation under his lungs, like heartburn. The last thing he ate was that diner breakfast, grease and black coffee. Unaccountably, it makes him nervous. The radio has been playing all day, but just this moment it kicks out the first few lines of _Midnight Rider_. Arthur feels a chill run straight up his spine, feels like he's being watched even though he knows he isn't.

There's no need to second guess or make excuses. Arthur finds his way to the highway and steps on the gas, folding Colorado Springs safely behind him.

~

There's a moment where Arthur crosses over from west coast to east. The Texas border is that moment, and it's got nothing to do with the time. Arthur has no particular memories of Texas beyond the ones he's making now - landscape rolling by under four wheels - so he gets to enjoy it, and boy, is he. Arthur knew a few guys from Texas when he was deployed, and they all talked about it like it was the fucking Promised Land. It's easy to see why.

In Texas you can't have any doubt you're in America. There are flags everywhere, side by side with a Lone Star. He sees at least six rifles as he drives, displayed with pride in pick-up back windows, and each person he sees has big, broad smiles. A few even wave at him as he passes, never mind that he's a total stranger. Big hair is very much in fashion, and every now and then he catches a whiff of what simply must be apple pie. It's like an America theme park.

It's _amazing_.

It takes him two days to arrive in Austin because he needs to stop to take pictures, to buy souvenir crap he's just going to throw away, to see the King of Catfish in Lampasas (it's the size of a truck) and the replica of Falkenstein Castle outside Burnet. He loves every second.

By the time he hits the capital it's getting late. He checks in at a Residence Inn downtown, hits the commissary for a pack of cigarettes, and strolls around to the back alley to smoke and wait. He watches people bustle back and forth from Old Pecan, even though it's a bit of a let-down - they're just ordinary people in suits and dresses. Finally, the back door of the Eddie V's across the alley swings open, and a man steps through. He's already fitting a filter to his lips, his white chef's uniform stark and bright against the dingy green paint back here. He glances over at Arthur, glances away, and then snaps right back to him with widening eyes.

Arthur smiles at him. "Hey, man."

"Jersey?" His tone is incredulous, and it oughta be.

"Yeah," Arthur says, stepping forward into a rough, thumping hug. He gives back as good as he gets before stepping back. "It's real good to see you, Cookie."

Corporal Frederick "Cookie" Hollings is of average build and coffee complexion, approximately thirty-five years of age, six foot two, born and raised in Brooklyn, New York. He has several identifiable scars and tattoos including a Union Jack at the nape of his neck, the phrase _de oppresso liber_ over his heart, and a bullet graze between his fifth and sixth ribs on the right side. Though he claims never to have received any formal training beyond the Food Network and his nana, he has been able from the age of fourteen to create a five course meal from a single bag of fresh groceries and kitchen staples. Sometime since Arthur last saw him, he buzzed off all his hair again.

"Three _years,_ motherfucker!" Cookie pushes two fingers against Arthur's shoulder like a challenge. "You don't call, you don't write; man, I thought you were dead in an alley in fuckin' Beijing or something!"

Arthur can't help a laugh. "No. Though I went there, and it was... equal parts cool and hellish, actually."

"He don't feed you," Cookie observes, as always. "I told that fuck to feed you, you skinny bastard."

"You mean Dom?" Arthur grins. "Don't take it personally. He doesn't listen to anybody."

Cookie rolls his eyes and slings an arm around Arthur's shoulders. "Whatever. Tell me everything. Are you still doing that thing?"

"Dream sharing? Yeah. I mean, I think so."

"Come on," Cookie says. "You can tell me all about it over a burger. I know the best place."

Arthur perks up hopefully. "Your kitchen?"

"Fuck you, asshole, I just got _out_ of my kitchen and I'm tired. But trust me; Beth makes the best pickle salad you ever ate in your life. "

The restaurant they go to is far from upscale Eddie V's, literally and figuratively; it reminds Arthur of the diner in Colorado Springs. Cookie bangs in like he owns the joint, hollering for his friend, and a few people wave at him. "She's in the back," one says.

"Motherfucker, I know she's in the back! It's her kitchen!"

The customer waves him off with a roll of the eyes, and Cookie drags Arthur into the kitchen by means of a long, lanky arm around his neck. Cookie was never a master of subtlety.

Beth is short, that's Arthur's first impression. She can't be over 5'3. When Cookie goes to hug her, he's got to bend over to get his arms around her waist. He lifts her off her feet and she squirms and kicks, clinging to his neck even as she does it. Arthur pictures trying to do that with Ariadne and thinks he'll try it the next time he sees her, just to watch her eyes bug out again.

(He'll see her sooner or later. Inception is a hell of a debut; even if she weren't already addicted, jobs will be beating a path to her door. It's hard to say no to six figures.)

When Cookie lets Beth down, she punches his shoulder. "Bitch, I told you not to bug me when I'm working!"

Cookie just grins. "Bitch, I told you not to call me bitch unless you meant it. This is Jersey, we were in Afghanistan together. He's a peach, you'll love him."

Beth shakes his hand with a wide smile on her face. Arthur observes an empty piercing hole at the edge of her lip, and a tattoo peeking out from under her collar. "It's great to meet you," she says, and he returns the sentiment.

Cookie bumps his shoulder against hers. "I need some pickle salad and two burgers."

"Get your ass in a booth and I'll think about it."

"Baby, why you gotta be so cruel? I thought your people were supposed to be nice."

She flips him off. "Get. Out."

Arthur takes Cookie by the elbow and drags him. "I apologize for my moron, miss. I mean my friend."

"Hey!"

Beth is still giggling when the door swings shut behind them, and Cookie throws himself into a booth with a sprawl of long legs. "Go on, take her side. Everybody does, cause she's little and cute and I'm ex-military."

"No contest," Arthur agrees, sliding into the other bench. "What'd you mean, her people?"

"She's Canadian," Cookie says, dragging the sugar over and picking out a pink packet to fidget with.

Arthur nods. "Are you two together?"

Cookie's eyes snap up, angry. He lets the question sit there between them for a second, just to make his point. "Did you get hit in the head?"

"A couple of times," Arthur admits. "I didn't mean anything, I just thought... I don't know. It's been a while. People change."

"That doesn't goddamn change," he says, glancing over his shoulder like somebody's going to catch him. His whole posture is different, his shoulders hunched in, his brows together, ticked off. Ten years since they met, and he's still gorgeous when he's mad. "Fuck you too, Jersey, okay?"

"I'm sorry," Arthur said, hands up. "I don't know what I was thinking and I apologize."

"Yeah, you fucking do," Cookie says, but he's leaning back and opening up again, shoulders slouching comfortably. "What about you, man? You got somebody back in dreamland?"

Arthur glances away, into the restaurant. "Not really. Not right now."

Cookie nods. "That's okay, baby. You take all the time you want."

Arthur feels the smile on his face before he knows he made it. Cookie's always been able to do that to him.

They sit together, talking bullshit, talking politics, talking about their unit. Someone brings them beers, though they never ordered. Their plates arrive not too long after, and the food is just as advertised - the best pickle salad Arthur's ever had, and a damn fine burger. They're there when Beth closes the kitchen for the night, and she sits at their table and drinks with them until all the chairs are on the tables and the last remaining waiter is eating olives out of the cocktail caddy.

Cookie walks Arthur back to his hotel and leaves him by the taxi stand, makes him promise to call. Arthur dutifully writes down Cookie's new cell number and spends ten minutes up in his room trying to think where he's going to put it that he won't lose it, since his laptop's still in the trunk.

The sleep he gets that night is beautiful. He wakes up feeling like he's dreamed.

~

Just shy of the Texas-Louisiana border is a town called Port Arthur. He agonizes for a split second about how much time it'll add to his route if he stops, then changes lanes and takes the exit. Fuck it. He's on vacation.

Arthur doesn't know what he expected - more beautiful Americana, maybe. He can feel the eyes on him as he rolls through in his candy apple rental car, feel the silent judgment. He pulls in to a gas station to fill up, and the minute he steps out of the car he knows he's conspicuous - the BDUs, the designer glasses.

Arthur fucking hates being conspicuous.

The air is like a punch to the lungs, dirty and thick; it reminds him of Los Angeles on a hot weekday. It smells, too, like mold or standing water. Arthur's photographic memory furnishes him with a reel of CNN footage – crying kids in the wake of Hurricane Ike.

The attendant has her flip-flops up on the counter, fanning herself with a magazine. Her other hand holds a book, which she's reading intently. When the door bell jangles above Arthur's head, she's obviously startled; she jerks her feet to the ground and pretends to be busy inspecting her cash register.

Arthur gives her a warm smile. "At ease."

She flicks her eyes up, then smiles back sheepishly. "Afternoon."

He picks a couple of bottles of water out of the fridge and plunks them down on the counter, takes out his wallet and thumbs out bills. "Got a washroom in here?"

"In the back," she says. "I'm not supposed to let people use it, but you're not buying any hair dye, and you don't seem crazy, so."

Arthur laughs and toasts her with one of the waters. "Thanks. I appreciate that."

"That's no charge," she grins. Her nametag says _Tina_.

"Oh. I almost forgot." Arthur turns around and looks for the rack with the postcards. Sure enough, there's one with a picture of a brightly-lit bridge at sunset, wavy letters inscribing the name. "This too," he says, tossing it on the counter. "And a stamp, and a pen, and the nearest mailbox."

Tina arches a brow, but slides her pen and a book of stamps across the counter. "With the gas and the water, that's forty-three fifteen."

Arthur addresses the card to Phillipa Cobb, and scrawls into the blank space: _For your wall. You might share this one with your brother. Love, Mr. Charles._

"There's a mailbox on the corner," Tina tells him.

"Tina, you're a peach." She blinks at him, wide-eyed, and once he tosses his money down, he points at her nametag. Everyone always forgets they're wearing them.

She rolls her eyes at herself. "Oh. Course."

He's back on the road in ten minutes with everything accomplished, but despite that, he finds his mood darkening. He met a bright, responsible young lady who did a good job, and she does not deserve to be stuck in a dead-end town gas station where, by the looks of things, the poverty line is up to people's necks. Arthur has more money than God and he has the skill and savvy to destroy or raise up, and he can do nothing to help that girl for too many reasons to count. He can't afford to be in contact with a person he doesn't know, he can't afford to have her remember him for paying with a hundred bucks and telling her to keep the change. He can't explain why he wants to help without sounding like a condescending jackass, and he also can't be sure he _isn't_ a condescending jackass for thinking that she needs his help in the first place. He couldn't even tell her his real fucking name.

He'd meant to drive a few more hours and stop, check into a hotel. Instead he burns through the night until he can't keep his eyes open, until he's bargaining with himself for the last couple of miles. When he finally looks at a sign, it says:

  
 **Williams Blvd  
N O Intl Airport  
1 3/4 Miles**  


He lifts his tired eyes, and the clouds ahead are a deep, dark purple. It's the off season, so a hotel won't be hard to find. He goes straight to the business district, checks into the Hilton on Poydras and is asleep before he hits the pillow.

~

New Orleans.

Arthur stumbles out of bed feeling like death warmed over. He scrubs thoroughly in the shower to get the gritty feeling out of his eyes, off his skin, but it doesn't work; he scowls at his hair in the mirror because it's getting too long. It's already ten and the hotel's stopped serving breakfast, so he decides to walk the two blocks to Mother's. Mother's is a treasure of New Orleans cuisine, Arthur's been there many times. The red bean omelet and coffee is just as good as he remembers. There's not a thing wrong with it, which is how he knows that the hard lump in the bottom of his stomach when he's finished isn't the food.

It's overcast today, ugly and cold - for values of cold on the Gulf Coast. Still, everyone's collars are turned up and they aren't looking at one another as they walk. Arthur doesn't have a jacket, so he just hunches his shoulders and stuffs his hands in his pockets as he turns toward Canal. He can feel the skin on his bare arms goosebump - in fucking New Orleans.

He isn't going where he's used to going. A few blocks north is a group of shops on St. Charles, a triple-stitched pocket-squared third-generation-tailors paradise. He could drop ten grand in an hour, easy, but the problem is that they know him there. Arthur can't see anyone who knows him. It's too soon after the job to leave a trail, especially after _this_ job. He'd do better to stay under the radar.

Even as he thinks that, he knows he's lying to himself. He doesn't want to see anyone he knows, that part's true. As to why, well... that's more complicated.

He finds himself in the Canal Street Brooks Brothers outlet, frowning at racks of polo shirts and sweater vests. There's a cable knit that Arthur's drawn to, but it's too close to work clothes, and Arthur feels his lip curl. He feels like he's about to go sailing with the Kennedys.

A salesman sidles up to him. Early 20s, built slender, like Arthur, but nowhere near as strong. It's easy to tell under his navy rugby shirt, sleeves at a stylish three-quarter sleeve to display forearms that have never seen the inside of a gym. The guy has artfully windswept hair with blond highlights. "Hi," he says. "Welcome to Brooks Brothers."

Arthur tries not to scowl. "Hi. I... have no idea what I'm looking for."

The guy casts an appraising eye over Arthur's black t-shirt and dune cargos, two fingertips touched to his chin. "Hm. Casual or dressy?"

"Casual," Arthur says decisively, folding his arms over his chest. "I'm not sure you have what I'm looking for."

The salesman narrows his eyes at Arthur with total confidence, looking him over from head to toe. Arthur blinks at him, taken aback, but the guy just reaches out to turn him at the shoulder - the touch is as light and formal as a tailor's, and Arthur goes with it. You don't make a habit out of custom suits without learning to obey tailors. The salesman purses his lips. "Are you sure you don't want to step up a bit? I have suits that'd cut a line so sharp you could take someone's eye out."

"I know," Arthur says, trying to hide the smirk. "But it wouldn't be appropriate. I'm going clubbing." The words are out before he has a chance to think. They're alien in his mouth. He doesn't go fucking _clubbing_.

The salesman's eyes appraise him again - for a second set of qualities, though. "Hm. Okay. Come with me." He about-faces and marches off into the back of the store.

Arthur tails him, bemused.

The salesman's name is Stefan (with an F, thank you) and he is ruthless about shoving Arthur into the clothes he picks. Some things he doesn't like, mouth tightening around the edges; other things he glances away from with a pleased smile. He talks to himself as he sorts through twill and cotton; sometimes other staff come to ask if he needs help, but he waves them off with a brilliant smile and light fingers. Arthur rarely comes to reconsider a first opinion, but Stefan is neither frivolous nor amateur; in fact the outfit he puts together satisfies tastes Arthur didn't even know he had.

Stefan stands Arthur in front of a full-length mirror to review the completed look, plucking at the seams until the fit meets his standards. He begins with a criminally soft pair of midnight jeans, straight cut with a goldenrod stitch. (Stefan wanted him to turn the cuffs up, invoked the name of James Dean, but Arthur drew the line.) Next is a black V-neck shirt in a double-knitted jersey that hugs the muscle of his arms without seeming elastic. Finally, there's a sorry, slovenly, untailored excuse for a waistcoat flapping around Arthur's ribs. It's too long and there's too much fabric in the back, cinched in with a fucking _clip_. The pinstripe is too wide, not bold enough, the fabric isn't cheap but also is not the crisp perfection to which Arthur is accustomed. (Stefan had said it looked hot, and Arthur had taken one look at the smug curve of his lips and been forced to concede that much.)

"Just a little touch," Stefan says, his hand hesitating over Arthur's brow. "May I?"

Arthur nods and ducks his head. Stefan picks out a few bangs with the edge of his pinkie, and then steps back to survey his work. His eyes are narrowed and critical.

"I've been meaning to get it cut," Arthur mumbles, pulling at a stray bang.

Stefan taps his hand to get him to stop fussing. "I'll figure something out. You look fabulous, it's just missing something... I'm being a perfectionist, though, ignore me. I'm terrible for that. You look absolutely amazing."

Arthur smiles, and carefully lets one of his dimples show. "Thanks."

Stefan returns the smile, brighter. "I do good work, what can I say?" He gives an insincere shrug that is nevertheless charming. Arthur immediately experiences a full-blown memory of Mal, alive and young and beautiful in a shit restaurant in Paris, making that exact same gesture.

"Listen," he says impulsively. "I've never been to New Orleans before. If you're free tonight, maybe you could show me a good place to go?"

Stefan's face flickers: open, surprised, flushed, pleased, flirtatious. "I might be available. I'll have to check my schedule." He sails away to 'see if they have another length on that waistcoat'; Arthur graciously accepts that lie and spends the time looking himself over in the mirror. He's forced to conclude that the off-the-rack tailoring contributes to the casualness of the outfit. The slim cut of everything makes his chest and arms look bigger than they are (in truth, they are exactly proportionate to his frame). He looks like a student. If asked, he plans to say he's majoring in architecture.

Surprise: Stefan has a fortuitous gap in his packed schedule. Arthur decides to wear his new purchase, and introduces himself as Dale by way of MasterCard. When he has his BDUs in a bag in his hand, Stefan slaps his hand down on the counter. "I know! I figured it out! Do you mind a suggestion?"

"Of course."

Stefan points out the door. "A few blocks along Canal, you'll hit St. Charles. Where the streetcar rail turns in? You'll see a store called Rubenstein's; turn there and go about a half block up, you'll find the Meyer hat shop. Go on in there and let 'em fix you up. Trust me on this."

Arthur puts up his hands in surrender and promises he'll go. He has Stefan's number, they're going to meet for dinner at seven and Stefan won't tell him where. Arthur leaves the shop and follows Stefan's directions for just long enough that he won't be seen deviating, then heads for the Quarter.

He has no intention of going to Meyer's, or anywhere near Rubenstein's. His fingers have been itching for those places since he ignored the impulse this morning. He's never come to New Orleans without going there, visiting the Jack Victor and Canali displays like he visits the Rembrandts at the Met. It's impossible to say where Arthur saw his first suit, but it doesn't really matter; it's the idea of a suit that's important. The idea of a suit changes the idea of the man wearing it. A good suit is part of an ancient tradition, the product of dozens of people of superlative skill working together toward elegance, beauty and strength. A man in a suit can borrow the power of that tradition, a fact that did not escape Arthur even as a boy, when he was smart and sober and absolutely desperate for people to take him more seriously. Sometimes he thinks he was born wanting to get to a damn tailor.

Today, Arthur turns downtown. He bypasses Royal, antiques and jewelry, instead choosing to walk up the seedy part of Bourbon Street. It's before the dinner hour, just the right time for a person to be walking; last evening's been hosed away and nothing's open yet - or not too open, anyway. Bartenders are slouched behind the taps, watching the game and absently pouring drinks into schmucks who won't see 10 p.m. Arthur watches the sky darken into pink and gold, red and blue; by the time he hits Jackson Square, it looks like God's gone a little crazy with the photoshop. He passes by a tourist shop with an enormous array of hats inside and decides to honor his promise to Stefan; the girl behind the counter falls in love with him when he tugs the brim down over his eyes. She's got braids in her hair, no makeup, a lush mouth and the nose of an elf. New Orleans spawned her somehow, possibly out of the river, and Arthur's a little in love too.

When he leaves, it's time to call Stefan. He answers the phone fast, which Arthur likes - no playing around. "I have to feed you first," Stefan says. "Do you have a preference, or do you want to trust me?"

"You're the expert," Arthur says, taking private glee in being able to throw that phrase at someone else for a change.

Arthur takes a cab to the restaurant Stefan's chosen; it's Cochon on Tchoupitoulas. Left to his own devices, Arthur would have tried Herbsaint, the parent restaurant - same chef, but Cochon is trendier. Herbsaint's reputation is kind of stodgy, but Arthur himself is kind of stodgy. He'd rather get to know the standards before going experimental.

But Stefan is clearly trying hard to impress him, and Arthur has to give him points for that. He appreciates it when people give their best effort. As it turns out, the meal is only part of a lovely supper; Stefan is an opinionated person with many wrong opinions, and Arthur fences with him over import beers and courtbouillon.

Stefan is a native New Orleanian and grew up in a painfully old cottage in the Marigny, not that he felt deprived. His parents were from small town Georgia, and what they lacked in money they made up for in attitude - his father wore the same magnificently expensive suit for years, had it tailored every year and took such expert care of it that it never turned shiny. Stefan's mother named him, and though she died when he was young, he remembers her making floaty scarves by hand, remembers the perfume she'd get from the French Market instead of the fancy shops on Royal. Arthur listens, enthralled.

He insists on paying for dinner. "Believe me," he says, a wry smile on his lips. "I can afford it."

They walk to the club together. Stefan tells him about the neighborhood, the revitalization and gentrification. When they arrive at the club the bouncer waves them past the rope, because they look great. It's better than the restaurant; that was hip-verging-on-hipster, and Arthur smelled snobbery in the air. By comparison, the club looks like a movie set and the crowd is far more diverse. The band is excellent, of course; one thing you never need to worry about in New Orleans is the music. They dance for an hour before Arthur even starts to feel like taking a break.

Stefan, it must be said, is a superb dancer.

Late that night, they walk together back to Arthur's hotel. The air is warm, and Arthur's waistcoat long ago crumpled under Stefan's hands. In the glow of the Riverwalk sign they share a kiss, and it too is lovely - a palm at his waist, blond hair under his fingers, the sweet way that Stefan opens to him. The hand on his hip tightens eagerly. Stefan waits, ready, eyes on Arthur's mouth.

"I'll call you tomorrow," Arthur lies, and tucks a strand of hair behind Stefan's ear. He looks for the disappointment, and it flashes there for a moment, but it's soon replaced by a kind of shy pleasure that makes Arthur's conscience twinge. Stefan explains that he'll be working for part of the day, but Arthur should just text him, he'll keep his phone on vibrate. He's forgotten that Arthur said he didn't have a cell phone, but there's no need to remind him. He touches Arthur's wrist, just a warm brush of fingers. "I had a great time tonight, Dale."

Arthur nods along, smiles, kisses Stefan's temple sweetly and sees him off.

Alone, he sits on the edge of one of the planters and smokes a cigarette, gazing up at the sky. He can smell the Mississippi; it's his first memory of New Orleans, that river smell. He takes off his hat and rumples his hair as he walks over to his hotel, assuming a nervous, hunted expression. He breathes deep and fast to lose his breath, then rushes in and tells the concierge that there's been a last minute change in his schedule and he absolutely has to go right this minute. There is a whirlwind of packing and paying and valet attendants, and before Arthur tips the concierge, he's sure to meet the guy's eyes and say, _Listen, if anybody asks about me, can you tell him... just tell him goodbye._

On Highway 10, Arthur turns up WWOZ. There's a mean old blues on, which Arthur feels is a justly earned punishment. He sings along, since nobody can hear him.

He feels like a shit about Stefan. He feels bad.

That's so important.

~

The scenery across Alabama and Georgia is spectacular. He stays in Atlanta and takes Dale's Brooks Brothers outfit out on the town - not to pick up, just to be with people. He hears about a drag show and goes there immediately; the ladies are magnificent. One teases him about his hat from the stage, and he takes it off and puts it over his heart while he gazes up at her adoringly. She takes that as her due and swans off.

He sleeps like a baby that night and heads out early the next morning, refreshed and sure of his footing.

He'd better be, where he's going.

He makes the drive to his destination in nine hours, which is pretty good. By the state line things start to look familiar, and when he gets to Charlotte he's practically driving with his eyes closed. There's a copse of dead trees in Uwharrie that's like a touchstone for him; sometime in the last few years they've had a lighting strike and one of them is burnt now.

Arthur pulls over, digs out his totem and rolls it on the dashboard, heart pounding in his chest. It comes up real, again and again, so he lets a breath out and weaves the new fact into his memory.

He considers taking a detour, but decides against it - right into Fayetteville, down the boulevard, bold as you please. If somebody can identify the red car later, there's nothing wrong with that. A bit of shopping, a bit of groundwork, and he's tucked into bed promptly at ten. Eight hours later he sits up, showers and dresses in silence. The phone rings at nine, his wake-up call, and he uses the reminder to order breakfast. He loosens up in his room, stretching out and running in place. A few pull-ups, a few lunges, yes, he's ready. He puts away his eggs and brown toast when they arrive, the coffee, and a little fruit. Not too much.

The sun is high and bright today. Arthur takes a cab to a rental agency, picks up a Jeep and gets on the expressway. He's going to come in by McKellars and leave the Jeep at the car wash. If he can't make it back there, he deserves to get caught.

It's an old Green Beret tradition, and like the best traditions, it is unofficial and unsanctioned. In between the final exam and the new recruits' graduation ceremony, exceptionally brave and stupid Q Course survivors attempt to covertly infiltrate the office of the LTG and retrieve the general's keepsake watch. (While this exercise does not officially exist, the watch is kept in a strongbox bolted to the desk, separate from any potentially sensitive documents or information.) The operative will then transport the watch to Bronze Bruce, the Vietnam Special Forces memorial statue at the center of the base, and fasten the watch on Bruce's extended wrist. To complete the mission, the operative must evade capture, and must not later be identified by any superiors from any source, including camera. The exercise is known colloquially amongst Special Forces operatives as Mission R - that is, completed after Q Course.

Needless to say, this tradition is risky at best. It is not considered dishonorable to fail the attempt, as almost everyone who undertakes it fails; the only demand is that failed operatives display grace under fire. If captured, operatives must never, ever betray the mission - even under threat of expulsion from the service. In practice, the exercise is an excellent test of ability, including the ability to withstand interrogation if captured, and as such is largely tolerated by command - but if you crack, they'll nail you to the wall.

To Arthur's knowledge, nobody has successfully completed Mission R since 1997. Today, he's going to try.

He stashes a standard issue canvas bag in the Jeep's passenger with everything he'll need, and glues a scar onto his face that's about as realistic as you get. The car wash is busy on Sundays, so Arthur begs a key to the washroom and the guy hands it over just to get Arthur away from the desk. In the dank bathroom, Arthur zips his city clothes into a watertight bag and stashes them in a toilet tank. He makes a copy of the washroom key using a kit, throws that away and then tucks the copy on top of the doorframe, outside. He returns the key and promises to be back to pick up the Jeep in an hour. "Just going to go see an old friend," he tells the guy, who couldn't give a shit.

The only people left who'd recognize Arthur are command staff, so he's not worried as he makes his way down the street. He's got the BDUs from Vegas, the canvas over his shoulder; just one face in a sea of same-old-same-old. Of course, they're trained to know when there's someone out of place and Arthur's face is unfamiliar, which should raise hackles - but his bearing is military, is _command_. He gives them calm nods on his way past, and they let him pass without challenge. He makes it all the way to SOCOM offices before someone asks for ID, which he finds a little disappointing; it's one of the better forgeries he owns.

He explains that he's looking up his old CO. He names the man who ran Q Course when Arthur took it, and is told that the Major has retired. Arthur feigns surprise and asks for an escort to the administrative offices - maybe he can get some contact information. The guy asks Arthur if he knows where he's going and Arthur verbally lays out a map for him - it hasn't been that long since he was here. His interrogator decides that's proof enough, and lets him go on his own. After all, he's got a job to do, and he doesn't want to be late.

Arthur dutifully signs in, gets his visitor pass, heads down to admin, making a pit stop along the way to stash his canvas bag in the storage room next to the bathroom. In the offices, he asks after his old CO and is given an email address at which the man may be contacted - between rounds of golf, of course. Arthur thanks them and, on the way out of the office, takes out a piece of gum. It's the last in the pack, so he throws it away and plants a bank card behind a trash can. He turns in his pass and makes his exit.

Back at the car wash, he goes to the register to pay and, oh, no, his bank card. He pays with cash and asks if it'd be okay to park in the back lot while he looks. They say sure, buddy, no problem, go ahead. When he explains his problem to the security desk at SOCOM, the guy remembers him and assigns him a visitor pass to go look for his card. Nice of him.

Hiding out until shift change is easy, it's just a question of getting to that storage room to retrieve his canvas bag, ducking into the washroom and stuffing a giant wad of toilet paper down one of the bowls. He tapes up the out-of-order sign as it overflows. Then he just has to change into black ops gear, keep his head down and wait.

An hour later he's back in the room, peeling a black latex mask off his face and reapplying his fake scar with all possible speed - which, for Arthur, is pretty damn fast. He's back in his t-shirt and combat pants, and the black ops gear he wore is stuffed into the tank of the overflowing toilet. He made it all the way to the general's office door before someone caught him picking the lock; they'd switched to a radial lock _and_ a keypad, which added five minutes to the operation that Arthur didn't have.

Security bursts through the door and Arthur doesn't have to do a lot of pretending to act like they'd scared the fucking life out of him. He shows them his visitor pass, and they walk him to the admin offices where they recognize him. He finds his bank card behind the trash can and the guy behind the counter helpfully remembers the detail about the gum.

They let him go. After all, they're looking for a student; it's the fifth time this week. Graduation's in four days.

Arthur stops by Bronze Bruce on his way out, and gives him a crisp salute.

Next time.

Back at the gas station he uses his spare key to get into the bathroom and retrieve his clothes and hoses the tank down with ammonia, just like the black ops clothes and latex mask back at the admin offices. Arthur knows he's left no fingerprints on anything that hasn't been touched by a million people, but there's a vanishingly small chance that they'll test something somewhere for DNA. If they did, it'd link back to someone that's better off dead, so there should be none of that. He hides the spare key under a rock in the parking lot, and takes the Jeep back to its rental agency. From there it's a cab back to the hotel and a quick checkout. He can't get far tonight, but better gone than hanging around North Carolina, waiting for someone to arrest him.

Arthur's much more tired than he thought he'd be. It was a clean op, and he wasn't really expecting to succeed, but he thought he'd at least get into the office. He tells himself he's learned something valuable, that he'll be better prepared for next time, but he felt uncertain going in and he's uncertain now that he's coming out.

He kept thinking of the general as the mark, instead of the target.

He's wondering what else he missed. He wants to go back to work, where his team is, where people will second-guess him and brainstorm with him. His job isn't what he thought he'd be doing with his life, but it's his, his own. He's tired of this, whatever it is. Not vacation. Vacation isn't this grueling.

He has to consciously keep himself from speeding as he leaves town. His tires eat up the road, the Mustang's engine snarling, and he can't wait for the moment it runs out.

But he's got one more stop to make.

~

When Arthur was growing up, his hero was Iron Mike Tyson.

Here was a kid, born in Brooklyn, with a funny voice and an arrest record. His background was average, he had a few setbacks, just like anybody you'd meet. Arthur would watch the fights on TV, rapt. He would try to divide his attention between the picture and his father's voice, explaining it all from the armchair. _Anyone can get in the gym and build up some muscle, son, but this guy's strength is all in his hands. Watch him. Speed, coordination, accuracy, and most of all: timing. Look at him wait for it, wait for Biggs to get tired... there! Lights out, just like that._ Blue dome of the Boardwalk Hall arcing over their heads, bright lights flashing in the camera like jewels next to the blood and sweat and spit.

One year he asked for a speed bag for his birthday. Over his mother's protests, his dad installed it in the basement by himself. Arthur did more menacing dances around it than actual punching, but he never lost the love of the sport - not even when Mike Tyson turned out to be a cautionary tale. It was the boxing that made his mom enroll him in Judo classes, the Judo that led to Arthur's cadet unit, partly also the Judo that led to his visit from a Special Forces recruiting officer and subsequent escape from New Jersey, and so on until Cobb.

Arthur shivers all the way to his toes. He grips the wheel a little tighter, making sure he doesn't swerve, but the eerie feeling persists. It's probably just that he hasn't been on the Turnpike in over ten years. It feels like remembering a dream - but he knows how he got here. He left Atlantic City when he was eighteen years old, got on a bus that took him down this very road, and he never looked back.

He's tempted to stay the night in Philly, but if he did, it'd just be cowardice. It's not even dark yet; it won't be dark when he gets there. If he just grits his teeth and goes, he can make it to Manhattan before the night's over.

Park Avenue, he promises himself. He'll stay at the Waldorf, just this once; book a Towers suite like the ridiculous rich person he's supposed to be. He'll get himself a _phone_.

But for now, he doesn't need a map or a Google search. Once he gets off the expressway he navigates effortlessly to the bakery, the flower shop, the diner. Some things have changed, sure, but mostly things are how he remembers them. In the diner's parking lot he spends a long moment glaring at the Mustang's trunk. He fights it, but in the end he pops it open and pulls out the garment bag. He hadn't had any intention of putting the suit back on, when he'd started this trip - but then, he hadn't known he'd be coming here. He orders coffee, changes in the bathroom. In the smudged mirror, he looks so much older than he'd expected. He runs the tap and tries to put his hair into some kind of order; you don't ruin a good suit by running around looking like a hippie.

Arthur leans against the sink and lets himself remember those words, and the voice that said them.

When he arrives at Sholem, it's twilight. He doesn't rush, only walks past the stones on the narrow path. Part of him wants to get burnt up over the fact that there's a fucking McDonald's across the street, the lack of respect in society today, but he knows that's just him making up an excuse to glare at the yellow arches instead of looking at the names and the stars beside him.

There's one headstone. They'd only wanted one.

Arthur lays down his flowers and his bakery box at the graveside and crouches down beside it. He picks away the remains of old fallen leaves and brushes dust out of their names before laying the flowers on his mother's side - she was born Catholic. "There you go, Ma," he says to the cold stone. "Just like I promised. The grass looks good; they've been taking care of it. It's kind of cold, though; I hope there's birds nearby. Something pretty. Maybe some bees will come for the flowers, I don't know."

He rubs his hand over his face, then turns to the other name. "Hi, Dad. It's David. Sorry I haven't been back for any of the, you know, the days I'm supposed to come. I remember you a lot. I think about you both, and I think... that's the best I've got, you know? I stopped in on Abbie on the way over. She's good, the kids are good. Nate's good. And, um."

Arthur is quiet for a long time then, as the clouds turn to gold fleece over his head. He breathes the air, the smell of the Atlantic so near. If he concentrates, if the cars stop for a second, he can almost hear slot machine bells. The city's only a few miles.

"Hey," he says, remembering. He pulls the red die out of his pocket, shows it to his father's name. "Remember this? When we were walking by the Ocean One pier and that guy came running out of the Caesars casino and gave it to me? And then the security guys came. I remember he said, 'Hey, kid, here. Do some magic.' I never told you that. But I guess he was right, huh?"

Arthur's face is cold, and his throat is sore. He sniffs heavily and rubs his hand over his face.

"I did something, um. I don't really know how to explain what it was. But I think I kind of scared myself, if you can do that? And I was just hoping you guys might be able to explain things to me, like... tell me I didn't just imagine myself, or... shit."

He picks up the bakery box and offers it to his father. "I got you this. Asked for whatever they had with the most sugar. I was going to leave it but now I think they probably have rules against that. I don't usually listen to the rules but I know you'd kick my ass for ignoring them here, of all places, so." He lays the box aside and picks up some pebbles from the ground - there are dozens, everywhere. He dusts them off and lays a few on the ledge under his father's name, a few under his mother's.

And then he's out of things to say.

He kneels there for a minute more, feeling the air change as night settles. He feels like shit. This was a stupid idea, coming here; a stupid risk. He pulls out his pocket square, wipes his face and shoves it in his pocket. "I'll see you guys," he says, picking up the bakery box and striding for the gate. By the time his feet hit the road, he's running - dropping into the car, kicking the engine over and laying down fresh rubber all over the lot in his need to get away.

There's a fog rising. Arthur puts up the convertible's roof and drives like he's being chased.

Halfway to New York, his mood swings. The adrenaline's died down, and now it's guilt for running out on his folks, guilt for not visiting their graves since the accident, guilt for being alive the whole fucking time. Arthur's mad at himself, livid at his bosses and God and his parents and _everybody_ for how fucked up it all got, and he can't for the life of him figure out why until, of pure habit, he begins to plan past waking up at the Waldorf tomorrow.

Because the first thing that crosses his mind is what he's going to tell Cobb about where he's been for the last two weeks - but he doesn't owe Cobb a fucking _thing_.

Even as he thinks it, he knows it isn't fair. Angry as Arthur is right now, he can't really blame Dom for wanting to go back to his kids, for going a little nuts after what happened with Mal. Anybody would have, and it was risky to work with him after. Arthur knew that, and accepted those risks.

Doesn't mean the next time he goes to see James and Phillipa, he's not going to sucker punch their dad the first chance he gets. Dom deserves that, at least.

It's too complicated to think about, with the last of the light gone from the sky and miles to go before he sleeps. Arthur's been awake for too long, as it is.

~

He rises slowly out of sleep. His stubble scrapes against something with a thread count; he feels the weight of a serious duvet in the small of his back. He flexes his toes, his knees, his hips, pressing against the mattress in a stretch that's almost as good as sex. Something pops and Arthur lets himself bury his face in the pillow and groan.

He wishes someone were beside him, but even so, it's nice to laze in these crisply laundered clouds and know that he doesn't have anywhere to go.

Actually, that's not true. He's been sneaking up on New York the whole trip long, and in the back of his mind he knows where the road ends. But he isn't expected, so now that he's here, he can take a day or two if he wants.

He can't remember what package, if any, he may have bought. He knows he's in the Waldorf because he can see the skyline out the window, but the rest is just a golden blur. He must have been exhausted.

When he musters the energy to lift his head and peer around the suite, he spies his suit crumpled on the floor. The pants are ruined from kneeling in the dirt in New Jersey. Arthur immediately plans to phone the concierge and ask them to burn the whole thing, just as soon as he can get out of bed.

Well, he might save the shirt.

He drifts off again and wakes up a short time later; it makes him giddy to have all this room and time and slack. For once, he seems to have found the off switch; he doesn't feel the need to do _anything_ except lie here and think. He'll get a new Blackberry, tasteful but shiny. He wants a brand new suit and considers getting two (four, eleven) before he remembers where he's going. Just one, then, and maybe he'll give in to the trend for once and get a high-supers wool. The polyester in the BDUs is giving him psychosomatic hives and he wants something that feels good. He wants to eat lunch with a martini, he wants to check his email, he wants to get a massage and a manicure and then dial his new phone and make something happen.

But first, he wants to shower two weeks of grime off his shoulders and then get in the jacuzzi.

It's a long haul, but he makes it to the palatial bathroom. Every conceivable beauty product is available, and Arthur soaks himself in all of them; he is owed one long and beautiful day of gluttony.

When he's done he wraps up in a robe and calls down to the concierge. On what must have been Arthur's own instructions, the bellhop has brought the contents of the car up to the room - this includes Arthur's briefcase.

"I need a lot of things today," Arthur tells the woman on the phone. "Lots planned."

"Very good, sir." Her accent sounds like Wisconsin, but her diction is prim and proper as Jeeves himself.

"What's your name, miss?"

"It's Jennifer, sir."

"Can I call you Jenny?"

"You may." There's an edge on that generous allowance that Arthur enjoys.

"Jenny, I need the following things in the following order: first is breakfast. I need eggs. Then I need the internet, the gym, and a massage, followed by an appointment at Kenneths to make me look less like a yeti. Also, I need you to burn my old suit, and I guess I need to borrow a jacket until I can get to Barney's this afternoon - black, narrow cut if you have it, about a thirty-eight or forty. When I return from shopping I will need a table at the Bull and Bear, followed by a long evening of vegging out in front of this monstrous television, possibly with pay-per-view. I'll need a wake-up call tomorrow, but I'll call you once I've booked my flight. You got all that?"

Jenny doesn't even hesitate. "How do you like your eggs, sir?"

When Arthur is done laughing, he and Jenny talk for about another ten minutes, in the course of which he offers her a job as his personal assistant. (She turns him down, which is just as well as he wasn't really serious; he only employs people who are already criminals.)

Breakfast arrives as he's sorting out his email. Arthur eats everything Jenny sent, except the bacon. She also sent a carafe of coffee, at least six cups worth, and for that alone he loves her. The whole thing is gone before Arthur is finished sorting his inbox.

Most of the emails are about the Fischer job, one way or another. People ask if he really did it, if the stories are true, who else was there and how long it took and how they fucking managed it. He makes a mental list of the stories that are the most fun:

  

  1. Their architect was a literal child - guesses on age range from eight to thirteen.
  

  2. During the job it was revealed that Mal faked her death, and she and Cobb have reconciled.
  

  3. Their employer was the President of Nigeria (protecting his oil interests from Fischer-Morrow), and the contract specified that they would only be paid on completion.
  

  4. Their employer was Yusuf, who was field-testing his sedative; this rumor is accompanied by the implication that it is impossible to perform inception without him.
  

  5. Arthur himself set off a tac nuke deep in Fischer's subconscious, and Fischer is now incapable of natural sleep.
  



He promises himself that he will corroborate each of these rumors as soon as possible.

There are a few emails from Cobb that follow a bell jar of guilt and passive aggression, tapering off only once the worry kicks in. According to the last one, he's considering tapping an old CIA contact to assemble a search and rescue. Arthur shoots off one line: _I'm fine, you lunatic, now fuck off and hug your kids for me._

One email from Saito details the parameters of a permanent job offer. Arthur replies to that one with much more tact, but he declines. Saito is an excellent person to know, but Arthur's gotten used to being his own boss.

A tentative letter from Ariadne asks how he's doing, and if he has any side effects, and if he's dreaming, and would he maybe be interested in stopping in on her if he's in Paris sometime. Arthur replies that he'd be delighted and will call her soon; she is just as crazy as Cobb and Arthur is going to keep her. This time he'll get his talons in an architect while they're still young and malleable.

Yusuf has not sent anything, but that's hardly a surprise. Arthur has known Cobb for years; they are friends and his kids call Arthur "Uncle", which is the sole reason that Cobb is still fucking standing after that fiasco. Yusuf's brilliance will excuse much, but it will be a long time before Arthur is willing to work with him again - if at all. He hates being lied to, even for twice the payday.

There is also nothing from Eames.

Arthur gets dressed in black BDUs, a T-shirt and the sports coat that Jenny sent up. He looks terrible, schlubby, but it won't be for long. He still has the canvas bag, so he dumps out the remains of his attempt on the general's watch and stuffs it with gym clothes. A workout is exactly what he needs.

The next few hours are an onslaught of activity. Arthur spends two at the fitness center getting beaten up by qualified professionals and only barely gets to Kenneths in time for his appointment. He is well aware that he looks like a hobo, but it's only painful standing under the salmon arches, with the eyes of aestheticians trained hatefully on his stubble. He is whisked away to the men's area to be washed, trimmed, styled, shaved, plucked and waxed; only once he gets to the manicure does he start feeling like himself again.

Jenny approves with her eyebrows when Arthur passes by the concierge on the way to the cab stand. "Well done, sir," she murmurs, glancing up from her work. He winks at her.

At Barney's he spends an hour in men's fashions picking out a charcoal gabardine from Hugo Boss. Once his measurements are taken for the suit, his secret weakness for cashmere sweaters costs him a few hundred dollars - there's a sale, what, he can't be blamed. He selects a few good shirts and ties, then lets the sales guy talk him into a gorgeous pair of Ferragamo boots, which he orders gift-wrapped. At the desk he asks them to find him a wheeled carry-on to pack everything into, gives them his preferred brands and tells them he'll be back in a half hour.

The new Blackberry takes twenty minutes of Arthur's life, standing across the street tapping his fingers on a counter. He didn't miss a phone at all for the first week, but it's becoming readily apparent that withdrawal was just delayed - right now all he wants in the world is the hand-held power to know the location of every ATM in a ten-block radius.

Back at Barney's he slides that phone into his brand new inside breast pocket, and feels a tension release at the base of his spine. It feels so good that he uses his best alias's Visa. (Peter Entwistle doesn't often enjoy American suits, but from time to time.)

Knowing what he'll see, he turns and looks in a full-length mirror. He savors the recognition - _that's me_ \- and straightens his tie.

"Bello," says the tailor softly.

Arthur looks at him. "Did you know that, in Latin, that means _war_?"

The guy blinks at him. "Yes. But you're a knight of Madison Avenue in that suit. I stand by it."

Arthur turns back to the mirror, a smile threatening the horizon. "Fair enough," he says, and brushes an iota of lint from his lapel.

The rest of the night passes quickly. He goes to the steakhouse, charms a lovely, delicate older lady into eating with him, then kisses her fingers and heads for his room. There he books a flight that leaves first thing in the morning, packs up the room and lies on the bed with his feet up, flicking back and forth between CNN and MSNBC until he passes out. It takes a while this time, his mind cycling fast into the wee hours. He wants to _go_.

In the morning he's out of bed at the first beep of the alarm. He does his morning ablutions efficiently, bids a fond adieu to Jenny and has the valet bring the convertible around.

He's going to wipe down most of the prints and abandon it in the parking lot of JFK. It's served him well, but it's time to go.

~

As always, Heathrow's customs officers are the first to make Arthur's internal compass realize that he is now in England. By the time he reaches the baggage reclaims, he can feel his mind switch from American English to English English - lift, lorry, flat, mate. He picks up a few hundred pounds from the bureau de change, a pack of Dunhills from the duty-free, and hires a car. In no time at all, he's driving on the wrong side of the road to an address he wouldn't have the first fucking clue how to find if his new phone didn't have GPS.

For all the travel he's done lately, for all the eight hours he just spent on a god damn plane waiting for _ever_ , suddenly things seem to be happening much too fast. The houses blur past him, the street signs jumping out, and when he finally spies the right number, the perfect parking spot is right in front.

He sits there, fiddling with his phone. He puts it in his pocket, takes it out and puts it on silent, puts it back in his pocket. Keys in his bag. Keys in his trouser pocket, he can't take the bag, he's not _staying_ here, it's not a hotel. Why didn't he buy a shoulder bag in New York? He can't take his briefcase. No, wait, he can if he wants. He's supposed to be working.

He _is_ working.

Arthur closes his eyes and takes one deep, long breath before getting out of the car. He strides up the walk and rings the bell; it is not audible outside the house. Of course not.

It is eight in the morning, Greenwich Mean Time. Eames takes ten minutes to open his front door, and he's wearing a robe, flannel pajamas and a scowl.

"Hi," Arthur says.

Eames blinks at him, bleary-eyed, sandy hair sticking up at right angles. His voice is rough with a lack of caffeine. "Good morning, Arthur. Won't you come in?"

Arthur does just that, stepping past the threshold and setting his briefcase on the floor. "I'm sorry for waking you," he says, wiping his feet carefully.

"Shoes off, if you please," Eames says, turning to shuffle into the back of the house. Arthur bends down to obey and is apologizing to thin air for a minute before he realizes he's meant to follow. He arrives in the kitchen in time to see Eames plug a kettle into the wall, put his hands in the pockets of his robe and squint at it in a perfect imitation of Cobb in the mornings.

"I lost track of time," Arthur explains, softening his voice in deference to Eames's state. "I've been traveling for a while."

Eames nods. His jaw is dark with beard, his hair clean and falling into his eyes, which remain glued to the kettle. "Just in from Heathrow?"

"Mm." Arthur seats himself at Eames's breakfast table, which is of beautifully aged oak. On closer inspection, it may be an actual antique. He busies himself looking as Eames makes tea, and when a cup and saucer appear in front of him, Arthur blinks. "You didn't have to make one for me," he says, picking it up.

"Yes I did," Eames argues, a bit more vim in him with a cup in his hand. "In England, one offers tea to one's guests, and as you're in my home, you're my guest. My home, Arthur, the location of which you ought to be too polite to acknowledge knowing, let alone popping your nose in without so much as a call. Please, do explain." His voice is absolutely pleasant, but he arches an eyebrow over the rim of his teacup.

Arthur shrugs and leans back in his chair. "Honestly, Eames, I can't. I mean, I came here because I want you to be my extractor. I can't work with Cobb anymore, for obvious reasons."

"Because he's retired," Eames supplies.

Arthur slants a look at him. "No, because he screwed me. Yusuf's one thing; I just met the guy. I don't expect to trust him. But Cobb?" Arthur shakes his head. "No way."

Eames is silent for a long moment, regarding Arthur across the table. He puts down his teacup, crosses his legs at the knee and refolds his robe. (Arthur thinks of Katherine Hepburn and experiences the type of cognitive dissonance that Eames almost always manages to provoke in him.) Eames thinks, fingers drumming on the table, and Arthur doesn't interrupt.

At length, he looks up. "So... which of us do you imagine being the man in charge of this new outfit?"

Arthur blinks again. Eames is many things, but always a surprise. It's impossible to predict him. "Neither. It's a partnership, an equal partnership. I've got Ariadne for architecture, and obviously she's too young to take much of a leadership role, but the two of us, absolutely. We'd agree on which jobs to take, how much to a share, everything."

"And do you imagine it was like that for you and Cobb? Equal footing and all?" He seems so casual; there's zero tension in his voice or in his shoulders. Yet, the questions zing right into places where Arthur's unsure, and that can't be an accident.

"I don't know," he says. He's staring at the red rim inside his cup, because he's a coward. "I thought so, but... I guess it wasn't."

Eames takes in a soft breath and holds it. A smile touches at the edges of his mouth; he flips a corner of his robe back and forth with one finger.

"Try to keep it down," Arthur scowls. "I can hear your smug from here."

"I'm just so proud," Eames murmurs, his lips curving up.

"Stuff a sock in it, Mister Eames." There's no edge in Arthur's voice, it's just a standard reply. He leans back in his chair and sips his tea - cream and no sugar, just how he likes it. "It's a good move. Let Yusuf handle inceptions. We've got plenty of press off it already; we'll never lack for regular work again. I trust you, and it'll be years before Ariadne has enough contacts to be a potential threat, if it ever gets there."

Eames nods along. "We'd do all right, yeah. I've never done full-time extraction, but I've had it piecemeal on a few jobs. We'd want to start light until I've got my feet, until we're all ticking merrily along together." He sips his tea, and the flick of his eyes to Arthur's face is almost too fast to be noticed. "We may all need to make a few adjustments to our usual ways and means."

"Naturally," Arthur nods, already planning for it. He starts thinking out loud out of habit. "We'll want to arrange to meet buyers together, or at least conference discreetly. You work better with a plan to adjust, so I'll start putting together options as soon as we agree on a price."

Eames smiles against the rim of his cup, eyes hooded and secretive. Arthur's busy thinking, and barely notices.

After a few more minutes of Arthur talking away about plans, making notes on his Blackberry as best he can and wishing desperately for a moleskine, Eames interrupts. "May I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"...Is that a yes?"

Arthur rolls his eyes.

Eames smiles at him. "Sometimes it's hard to parse your idioms."

"Did you have a question?"

He nods. "While I appreciate your offer and have for all intents and purposes accepted it, and while I am honored that you consider me both skilled and trustworthy despite appearances to the contrary-"

"Eames."

Eames holds up a finger. "I just wondered how that translated to racing across the world to land on my stoop at eight in the bloody morning. That's a bit mental even for you." He's gone serious now, even sympathetic. "No offense meant."

Arthur chews on his bottom lip. "Yeah, none taken. It's... it's hard to explain."

Eames nods, a small movement. "Right, of course. Understandable, what with... everything." He gives an elegant, subtle wave, like the Queen. There's that dissonance again.

"I went home," he finds himself saying. "I went to a lot of them, actually. Eames, did... when we woke up in the plane, when it was all over. Did you ever wonder if maybe..."

"If it had happened before?" Eames says quietly. "If it had happened to me."

Arthur swallows hard and nods.

"No. I mean, of course, for a minute. But what you want to ask is, do I wonder if I was meant to be someone else, and now I'm just what someone else put in my head? If we changed Fischer's fate, you and I."

"There was more than just us," Arthur stutters, but he stops on his own because that doesn't matter and he knows it. His throat is closing up and his heart is sinking.

"Doesn't matter," Eames tells him, and he is so gentle when he reaches across the table and touches Arthur's hand. "We're changed every day by the people around us. I'm what I am because of who I've known, you get me? And it's no more complex than that."

Arthur is conscious of Eames down to his marrow. The rasp of fingers against his skin, the calluses of guns and pencils and exacto-knives. The warmth thrown off by a man with that much muscle. The brush of a quilted cuff against his finger. His lips are dry and time is slowing down.

"Arthur," Eames says, leaning down to catch his eyes. Arthur lets him, looks back at him, and Eames's own eyes go wide. "Oh dear. You really do trust me."

"I told you," Arthur says, and feels his voice stumble.

It's stupid for Arthur to trust, of all people, a _forger_. But no matter how simple Eames makes it sound, Arthur just can't believe that inception is one more ordinary thing in nature's wide and beautiful plan. It isn't logical. And if Arthur really is himself, he can't live with what he's done unless someone, somewhere, forgives him. Fischer can't do it because he doesn't know it happened, Cobb wouldn't understand the need, and Arthur feels responsible for everyone else on the team except the man across the table. Somehow, Eames has always stood apart.

"You keep me honest," Arthur tells him now. "For certain values of honesty. If you tell me I didn't destroy that man, I'll believe you."

Eames sits forward in his chair and meets Arthur's eyes dead-on. Sometimes he can be slack and lazy and bored, but sometimes he can be still as a snake. He shifts his grip to Arthur's wrist and tightens it. "Listen to me, now, Arthur. I'm going to tell you what you've done, and the moment I've said it, you'll know I'm right. Ready?"

Arthur nods.

"You did your job," Eames tells him. "You saved the children growing up without a father, you did your duty by a friend who doesn't deserve you, and your duty by those of us there with you. I couldn't have asked for a better man on my six, you understand? And now we're calling the shots, we learn from their mistakes and we don't make the wrong call. We don't do that anymore. But up to now, it's just what we had to get done."

Arthur's already nodding along with him. Fucking Eames knows all the passwords, and half of what he's saying is total bullshit but it _feels_ right. Eames _gets_ it.

"Oo rah," Eames smiles.

Arthur rolls his eyes. "That's Marines, asshole."

"You all look the same to me," Eames beams.

Arthur glares at him. "I'm trying to have a fucking moment here."

"I'm a beast." Eames's gleeful smirk is too much to be borne.

"I don't have a place to stay yet," Arthur announces. "You've got a guest room, right?"

Watching the shock slap Eames around is perfectly satisfying. He removes his hand from Arthur's wrist and reaches for his teacup. "Er."

"Great," Arthur smiles. "Thanks. It's early, but I'm starving. You want some breakfast? Why don't I make breakfast?" He stands up and leans across Eames's body to pick up the stray saucer. "I'll get you some more tea, too. Like a thank you."

"Ah." Arthur is delighted and deeply satisfied to see him _blush_. "Is it going to be like this all the time, working with you?" Eames asks lightly.

Arthur is already in the kitchen, cracking open the fridge. "Maybe. Probably. Oh, I brought you a pair of boots from Barney's. I forgot 'em in the car."

"Arthur," Eames muses. "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

"Yeah, okay," he says amicably, pulling out the eggs. "But I get to be Bogart."


End file.
